


Woody

by Maighdean_Uaine



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bondage, Extremely Dubious Consent, Feelings Realization, Forests, Geralt Saves the Day, Geralt likes to watch, Hypnotism, Imprisonment, Jaskier is hypnotised by the tree, M/M, Mind Control, Monster of the Week, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Nightmare Fuel, Not Suitable for Minors, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other, Pervert trees, Porn with ridiculous plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut, Tasteless, Tree Sex, Tree rape, Twisted, Wonders of nature, Yikes, slutty jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24117778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maighdean_Uaine/pseuds/Maighdean_Uaine
Summary: Jaskier accompanies Geralt on a monster-hunting trip into some scary woods, but is left behind before Geralt can fight the monster, as the witcher is afraid his dearest friend could be hurt in the attack.Unbeknownst to them both however, more than one monster lurks in these particular woods, and Jaskier is left in the perfect spot to run into a lusty tree-sprite – a grim and dirty one that wants to have its wicked way with poor Jaskier in its subterranean lair!But when that nasty tree-sprite has the power to imbed pleasurable hallucinations into the minds of its helpless victims, is Jaskier even complaining? And however is Geralt going to feel, when he finds the friend he secretly loves getting off with a tree??Contains graphic smut, non-con and mpreg themes – and is definitely unsuitable for minors and persons of a tasteful disposition. Dendrophobics: run away now.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 119
Kudos: 284





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so another word of warning to the curious: this fic contains some highly questionable material so don’t read on if you’re potentially bothered by such things. Among the general themes of mutual pining, angst and smut we have the rather more unusual elements of tree-rape (whatever that even is), bondage and mpreg. There are quite obviously some twisted and weird non-con elements that some (most?) people may find disturbing. So persons of a sensitive and tasteful disposition are advised to avert their eyes right now and backclick on your browser!
> 
> And please do be advised kids – this isn’t suitable for minors at all, and I will not be held responsible for anyone’s future therapy bills.
> 
> And with that huge caveat in mind, let’s catch up with our two favourite guys as they go spider catching in the deep, dark woods...

The forest was dark and gloomy, full of shadows and slippery leaves. As the two friends marched on, brambles tore at their boots and freakishly tall nettles grazed at their arms, trying to sting them through their jackets and leathers.

The giant spider had picked its spot carefully, in the most secluded part of the forest, where it could sleep by day undisturbed by passing humans. And then at night, the trees and weeds provided cover for its travels to the outer edges of the peasant village, where it had dragged small farm animals and household pets back to the forest with its eight long arms, to be devoured on its web and further feed its repulsively growing size.

Rumours abounded that travellers into the woods at night had disappeared – presumed to be victims of the spider. And so nobody went in there anymore to pick wild fungi or gather firewood. And fear itself mushroomed in the neighbourhood.

The villagers were worried that soon, the spider monstrosity would be big enough – and hungry enough – to pose a danger to their children. That it might come into the people’s houses and snatch sleeping infants from their beds at night.

And while the reward they had gathered to pay Geralt to dispatch the beast was not much – for the farmland around here was poor and the villagers were not wealthy, the witcher had agreed readily to hunt down the mutant arachnid before it developed a real taste for human flesh.

Geralt of Rivia would not suffer a monster to harm anyone’s child – and he had set off at once – as soon as he’d arrived into the village one afternoon with Jaskier by his side.

And as always, Jaskier wanted to join in the fray.

The bard had pleaded with Geralt to be allowed to come along on his latest monster hunt, even though the idea worried the witcher immensely. Jaskier was brave, and he wasn’t stupid – but neither was he a fighter and the thought of him coming to harm was more than Geralt could bear.

But as the two friends knew fine well, Geralt could never say no to Jaskier for very long. A few flutters of the bard’s long eyelashes and a poignant plea from those round, grey eyes – and the witcher could only relent in helpless defeat. And so it had been this time, on the condition that Jaskier stay well away from the spider’s web when instructed.

Not that the bard appeared inclined to listen to that.

Up ahead, the brambles solidified – lying across the hill before the two friends like a jagged blanket of thorns. The villagers had told them that the spider lived on top of the same hill, sheltered in a hideous cocoon under a dead birch tree thicket.

It was close now, and that meant it was time for them to part ways.

Geralt shook his head, eyeing the hillside.

“This is where you stay, Jaskier. From now on, I’ll go alone.”

Beside him, the bard stopped and pouted.

“But what if you get hurt, Geralt. What if you need someone to – ”

“I don’t need anyone. Especially not you.”

The words came out harder than he’d intended – hard enough to make the bard’s shoulders stiffen. And while the witcher regretted the harsh means, his words did have the desired effect on his friend.

Jaskier stopped where he was, letting Geralt draw his knife to attack the brambles up ahead of him. But despite the initial sting, the poet was hardened to the witcher’s cold words and remained undaunted.

His own words were breezy and cheerful, addressing Geralt’s back as the witcher slashed his way up the hill.

“Okay, fine then. I’ll wait here for you. But, you know? Call out if you do need me. There’s no telling what you might run into up there!”

“Just... stay where you are, Jaskier. And please – stay _quiet.”_

There was something approaching tenderness in the witcher’s final instruction, and they both heard it. The unspoken apology for the prior meanness. The implicit admission of the care that the witcher felt for his friend.

The slightest, meekest, tiniest hint that behind all his harsh brusqueness and bluster, there might lie a barely understood declaration of something far more profound than mere friendly care and affection...

Jaskier watched his friend’s back as the witcher disappeared up the hill, unwilling to tear his eyes away for a single second. Until the towering undergrowth swallowed him up, and Geralt of Rivia disappeared from view.

Jaskier was finally alone now – without his lute, without Roach, without any companions to chatter away to.

He didn’t like being alone. But it was the price he paid to spend time with Geralt.

And maybe someday, things would be different between them. But for now, this was as close as his witcher allowed him to get.

He stared back at the brambles with unfettered longing.

And then, without Geralt by his side, the silence of the forest engulfed him .

The place no longer felt like the next backdrop to their latest adventure, full of excitement – full of Geralt’s heroics and bravery. Full of their togetherness and partnership. It felt like something else now. Something dark, and threatening.

Leaves whispered on the breeze and branches swayed all around him, drawing his eyes to the many directions from which a predator could hide, and watch, and wait.

He laughed nervously, hoping the sound of his own voice would break the tension he felt crawling over his skin now that Geralt was gone.

Without thinking, he began humming some tune – the coin song was always in his heart on occasions like this, and brought cheer to him through the gloomy woods, even as the silent and hidden eyes watched him from the trees just off to his left.

Those wooden eyes had been watching for a while – assessing him, probing him – raking over the limbs and trunk of his man’s body with an inhuman desire and bestial cruelty.

But Jaskier was unaware. All he felt was the hairs on the back of his neck tickling him in the wind, as his wide grey eyes searched the brambles where Geralt had gone.

He didn’t see the tree suddenly move as it slithered soundlessly from the bushes behind him, moving quickly and with practised aim.

And before the bard could even scream, a soft branch with pale green leaves was thrust down his throat, and fast-moving vines wrapped around his wrists and ankles – pulling him backwards with an atrocious strength into the gaping maw of the tree trunk.

Jaskier flailed in a panic, grunting and groaning as loud as he could – hoping somehow his friend might hear him and save him from whatever horror was set to befall him now – but it was no use.

The bard was dragged backwards into the hole in the tree trunk, and once he was trapped in place the wooden bark grew back over at an unnatural speed, hiding him from view of the whole outside world.

The tree slithered back into place by the bushes – its prey powerless to escape now – and the whole scene appeared to be unchanged to any passing, casual glance.

Save for a single silk handkerchief – fallen on the forest floor with small yellow flowers sewn delicately onto one corner.

While inside the tree, Jaskier’s nightmare was only just beginning...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely people who have left comments and kudos on this fic!! It’s great fun to know that so many folks are up for plumbing the depths of weird smutty horror with me on this grotesque and gratuitous trip into the dark woodland undergrowth of dendrophobic nightmares...
> 
> Our next port of call on this trip to Smut Central is the tree-sprite’s underground lair, where things are going from bad to worse for our poor humbled bard, as he is confronted and propositioned by his monstrously touchy abductor. Only Geralt can save him now – but by the end of this chapter – Jaskier might not even want to be saved...

In the grim hollow of the tree trunk, Jaskier fought to free himself. But whatever it was that was attacking him was strong – horribly strong – stronger even than Geralt, perhaps.

It had wrapped a series of tightening, biting threads around his limbs and was pulling him down – further underground, away from the light, and away from the outside world. Away from his witcher, and from any remaining chance he had of regaining his freedom before it was too late...

“No, stop it, _let me go –_ ”

Jaskier tried to speak, but the words came out in a muffled groan that even his own ears couldn’t distinguish.

Something cold and wet had been stuck down his throat, and it was hard enough to even breath steadily – with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and the dirt and grit that fell on his face as he was dragged lower and lower into the bowels of the earth.

“Oh, nooo!”

He sobbed to himself this time, feeling in his bones how deep underground he must be going.

The thought was terrifying – was this creature going to bury him alive? Was it going to eat him? What was going to happen to him now?

But he didn’t have to wait long to find out, for to his horror – his feet were suddenly falling through the air as the hollow he was pulled through opened up beneath him.

“Geralt, help!”

He tried one last time to call out to his witcher, convinced he was about to fall off the edge of the world. But instead, his body fell against a hard surface with a force that knocked the wind out of his chest, and left a surging pain running through his head.

“Geralt... please – ”

His sob sounded faint to his ears – faint and tired – and although the world could not go any blacker in front of the bard’s eyes, his sensations seemed to fall away bit by bit, to be replaced by the numbing caress of blind unconsciousness...

...

... and it could have been seconds, minutes, or even whole hours before he woke again.

He reached a clammy hand to his forehead, realising with a jolt that the ties and binds were gone. Whatever it had been that had dragged him down here was gone now. And that was not the only change.

The strange cavern in which he lay curled up on the ground was no longer dark like it had been before – all around him now was an eerie green glow, radiating out of the air itself as if some unholy fire burned from within the dank fumes of the earthy pit.

It all looked very magical. And very dangerous.

Wherever he was – he was going to have a job getting out of here. But there was no time to worry about that right now. Whatever had brought him here would be back before long, and he had no intention of being here when it returned to finish off whatever vile task it had started.

Jaskier rose on shaky legs and eyed the hollow tunnel in the ceiling through which he’d fallen. Maybe if he jumped high enough, he could scramble up, and try to –

_My dear, must you be leaving so soon?_

The words were a dry hiss, rasped and uneven to his finely-trained musical ears, and possessed of a peculiar pitch that made the muscles on his neck twitch with instant loathing.

Jaskier whirled around on his feet to confront his attacker, and immediately wished that he hadn’t.

The thing standing before him was hideous – some monstrous, spiky being with limbs like branches and hair made of leaves, looming large and hunched like some gigantic insect posed to spear its prey with its glistening collection of stabby appendages.

He swallowed, words failing him for once.

“Uh... hello? What’s a nice, neighbourly... gr- _grasshopper_ like you... doing in a place like this?”

Some rough hole in the creature’s bark-like skin opened and closed in a lewd wink at him.

But was that hole really an eye? Or was that obscene looking gesture actually meant to be a smile?

Jaskier shuddered.

_I’m no nasty, filthy bug, my dear. I’m a tree._

The thing’s voice rose in a warble of petulance, and Jaskier winced. Whatever else he said, he didn’t want to cause undue offence to this huge, pointy and menacing captor.

“Right, yeah. A tree.”

_And I’ve been watching you, my dear. You’re perfect. That’s why I brought you here._

The grimace had definitely been a smile, Jaskier realised. The thing seemed to be trying to be charming – for now. But he didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing?

Jaskier knew he was well beyond the capacity for rational evaluations right now.

“Oh, that’s... _nice._ But... why? Why did you bring me here?”

His voice was unsteady – he could hear it wavering in fear and wondered whether the creature understood his human emotions or not. Would it be displeased to know that he was terrified?

Or would it, in fact, be rather _pleased?_

Jaskier definitely knew which would be the worse of these two options.

He swallowed, hoping that the creature’s response would be somehow comforting. Maybe it had a _nice_ purpose in bringing him here, and was just lacking in social etiquette because it had been raised by wild, white-haired witchers? Maybe it had brought him here to teach him some new songs? – to train him to sing in the mysterious notes of the plant kingdom and beat that charlatan Valdo Marx in the next barding contest in front of the Countess de Stael who would proceed to throw all her –

_You are strong and fertile, my dear. And I will impregnate your insides with my seed._

Jaskier’s jaw dropped floorwards.

And the hole in the creature’s trunk winked flirtatiously at him again.

“You... want to... _what?”_

The creature advanced, and Jaskier found himself taking a step backwards – and colliding with the solid mass of the cavern wall.

Fuck.

This was not good. This was really not good at all – at all!

“But...”

Jaskier heard his voice stammer as he cowered against the wall, trying to avoid the lengthening, crawling branches that were shooting out of the creature’s rank wooden body. One of them had reached his left ankle, and begun wrapping itself around his knee-length riding boot.

The sensation was horrifying.

“But I’m not that kind of boy!”

A hissing laugh made his skin crawl.

_That’s what they all say, my dear. But they all enjoy it in the end. They all enjoy being filled with my gifts._

Another wooden branch was sliding around his right wrist, pinning it against the cavern wall and raising it high above his head.

He tried to pull against its grip, but even these narrow twigs had more strength than his whole body. It was no use.

The creature had him trapped.

And there was only one thing left to say to it now. And he didn’t really care how desperate he sounded. Fuck it, he _was_ desperate.

And scared.

“Please, whatever it is you want – please just let me go. I mean, you’re a lovely tree and all – really you are, but... uh...it would never work out. Between me and you. Right?”

The tree monster only hissed with laughter again.

_Whatever do you mean, my dear? How could I ever be so cruel as to let you miss out on this?_

A supple green vine burst out of the creature’s trunk and entwined around Jaskier’s knee, kneading around the top of his riding boot.

He heard the twisting creak as the vine’s motion rubbed slowly against his tight leather breaches, sending a juddering tickle through his flesh that felt so terribly good in such an awful, dizzying way that it made him cringe deep inside.

He closed his eyes, aware that more vines were now wrapping across his other wrist – his other ankle, binding him tightly and stretching his legs wider apart where he was pinned against the wall.

He wanted to plead with the creature, and beg it to stop – but his mouth had gone dry and his thoughts were fading fast.

_That’s right, my dear. Let go of your troubles. Give in to me. It will be nicer for you that way, you’ll see._

Jaskier felt another vine – soft and yielding – brush seductively against the taught leather that covered his sensitive inner thigh. He tried to squirm away, abysmally aware of the thing’s intent, but it was no good. With a shocking impropriety, the tree monster’s creeping finger stroked towards the front of his breaches, searching for and finding the bulge in his pants that grew traitorously harder at the insistent caress.

“No, _please...”_

And as if in answer to his plea, the vine trailed lazily between his legs, pressing with deliberation on the private spot clenched tight between his leather-bound butt-cheeks, where no mere plant should ever have the right to probe a man so grossly and outrageously...

Jaskier yelped at the profound indecency, feeling the blood rise to his cheeks as his body responded in the only way it knew how, confused and confounded by the pleasure of the monster’s touch and the gross violation of his own desire.

The creeping vine rubbed slowly across his balls, sliding off the smooth leather barrier that lay between the probing plant’s creeper and his stiffening male member.

“Oh gods.”

The taught leather breaches squeaked in protest, sending shivers of fearful delight through Jaskier’s cock – straining now against the leather, and wringing all the breath from his chest as though he’d been punched.

And wickedly, the tree-monster was only encouraged by his pained cry – and the quickening of his breath as the jumbled feelings of fear, shame and the deep, carnal need pulsed through his body at the creature’s foul instigation.

He didn’t want to open his eyes to see what was being done to him – it was too horrible.

He didn’t want to think what this creature was _going_ to do to him. It couldn’t be serious, what it had said before. He was a man – a fucking man – and men couldn’t possibly...

 _He_ couldn’t possibly...

But yet he didn’t want to ask. He didn’t want to know.

All he wanted to do was close his eyes and hope the nightmare would go away.

A face appeared inside his mind – shining and hopeful, lit up by his fear, his need, and the unclean thoughts that the creature’s touch aroused in his weak mortal body.

“Geralt, please – help!”

The creature ceased its wicked rubbing at his cry.

_Of course – you want your dashingly handsome witcher friend, don’t you? You want to feel him inside you and surrender yourself to him alone – but yet you’ve never told him, because he does not love you back. My poor silly darling. If it will help you to relax, Jaskier, my dear – then I will give you what you most desire..._

Jaskier opened his eyes, startled by the creature’s knowledge.

Could it read his mind? See into his thoughts? How did it know his name? How did it know his feelings for Geralt?

And how could it ever give him what he desired – Geralt wasn’t here! Geralt was far away, killing spiders and being heroic in the wide expanses of daylight, not stuck down here...

He stopped, on the verge of tears now.

Geralt wasn’t here.

And there was a good chance, whatever happened to him now, that he would never see the witcher again.

He heard the breath choke in his throat.

And before he could recover, another hideously strong vine was touching him – probing at his face this time, slithering over his lips, and wiggling its way into his mouth.

The slimy coldness of the thing made him gag, but no matter how much he rocked his head, the vine would not dislodge. It just slithered further down his throat, impervious against his teeth and all attempts to bite it.

Was it going to suffocate him? Was that how this was going to end?

_There you go, my dear. I will make you happy, before I fatten you. You will be a good boy for me, and stop fighting your prostration._

Something cold and watery was flooding out of the vine.

He felt something pulse through it and flow down his throat, spreading into his stomach. He closed his eyes, fighting for breath.

A sickening nausea caught him off guard – the thing was trying to poison him now! It was killing him, choking, and pulsating, and...

A sickly sweet sensation filled his body. It filled his mind. Like floating – being held up by the surface of the water, clean, pure, and all at once at perfect peace...

And thinking now, Jaskier couldn’t remember why he felt so afraid. He could feel his heart racing in his chest. He could feel his breath rattling on his lips. But why? What was so wrong here?

He opened his eyes to see, and there he saw his witcher.

Geralt was standing there, in the strange green light – closer than Jaskier would ever have imagined – with a mischievous smile playing across his lips, and a spark of amused affection glinting in his golden eyes as he took in Jaskier’s bewilderment.

“Geralt, what are you – ?”

But the witcher only growled with laughter, and raised one hand to stroke at Jaskier’s face.

The bard could have swooned at the touch, if it weren’t for the surprising numbness in his limbs. He felt like he couldn’t move them. Yet with Geralt here like this, why would he ever want to move them? Not with his friend touching him oh-so gently.

He felt his eyelids flutter at the ache in his heart.

And all the time, the witcher was watching him carefully – tracing the back of his hand down Jaskier’s cheek – listening to the way the other man’s breath trembled at the stroke.

“Do you know all the terrible things I’ve wanted to do to you, bard?”

Jaskier felt his legs shake, as he stared into his friend’s shining eyes.

And slowly – so incredibly slowly – Geralt was tilting back Jaskier’s face as he leant in to kiss him –reaching another hand out to Jaskier’s hip, and then raking strong, calloused fingers across the front of Jaskier’s swelling leather breaches...

The bard heard himself groan, senseless to everything except Geralt’s hand as it squeezed the contents of his pants with a proprietary sense of ownership.

“Do you want me to show you now, Jaskier? Will you submit yourself to your witcher?”

And with those words, everything in Jaskier’s mind came suddenly undone as he let himself be opened up to the witcher’s wicked, creeping fingers and deeply devouring kiss...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, I might have even grossed myself out a little bit with this chapter! :/
> 
> Deep in the bosom of the tree-sprite’s filthy burrow, Jaskier is indecently manhandled while under the influence of the mind-bending magical narcotics that his captor has administered. Believing the hideous monster that has ensnared him to actually be Geralt, the poor lovesick bard is groped and seduced – but each passing second brings him closer to the creature’s darker purpose... will our heroic witcher manage to save his bard in time??
> 
> Additional disclaimer: If any readers happen to know much about botany or biology – I’m sorry, this chapter will probably have you cringing double hard!! I had a browse online for some suitably disgusting-sounding words to describe plant anatomy in gory detail, but I literally have no clue about the science behind any of this stuff and so probably all these terms are used in the wrong context totally. But, you know. This fic is in no way intended to be grounded in real-world science!

The shadows in the forest lengthened as the sun slowly edged its way westwards. All was calm, and all was still on the surface of things – yet deeper down, under layers of thick black earth – the spirits of the woodland had come horribly alive.

Their powers were greatest in the gaps where men could not see, and so it was with the ancient tree-sprite – the one which had so brazenly seized the bardic companion of Geralt of Rivia, and which even now, was harnessing its dark illusory magics to entwine seductive glamours into the musician’s occluded mind.

In its subterranean lair – where the air shimmered thickly in an emerald light – horrifying shadows were cast on the cavernous walls. Shadows that sketched the creature’s real form and predatory essence...

Its strong green vines held the bard’s hands in place, while its brown branches rummaged most indecently across his stirring loins. In its despicable lust for the man’s supple flesh, it was driven to furiously beat its own rhizomes behind the terrible veil of magic that concealed its true and appalling vegetable-based nature.

Its atrocious plan was underway at last: to use and defile by the foulest of possible means the poor human body of Julian Alfred Pankratz.

And it planned to do so with the most abominable purpose in its putrid, photosynthetic mind...

Man-pollination.

But for now – drugged and helpless – the bard was oblivious to the unspeakable peril that awaited him.

The malicious sprite had indeed chosen its disguise cunningly – and it knew its prey was helpless to resist the face that it wore in the bard’s enchanted gaze.

For time itself had lost all meaning to Jaskier. As long as he thought Geralt’s lips were sealed to his own, his heart was skipping beats and all shadows of doubt were pushed aside.

The bard knew logically that there was no rhyme or reason to this newfound bliss – it was all too much like being in a dream. Some dizzying, drowning, delirious dream, where his deepest desires were all coming true...

But then again, no dream had ever _touched_ him like this before.

No dream had made him so desperately aware of his breathless body like this one did – with the black-clad body of his friend pressing hard on his own – squeezing and rubbing him with prying, searching fingers in a way that made his legs buckle in shock.

For the bard’s heart was ever lost in songs and poetry – and the torrid fantasies of years of unspoken devotion to his beloved witcher.

His faint trace of reason was drowned by the flood of feelings that those wanton fingers inspired in his potent imagination .

And the humanoid figure of Geralt knew well what it was doing – of course it did. With its sinister powers, it knew with expert precision exactly what it did to the helpless human in its clutches. Its fingers toyed with Jaskier’s cock through his leather pants, drawing over every lump and line while the bard groaned in stunned suspense... and all the while those golden eyes assessed the scale of each finger-flick by noting the musician’s rising state of breathlessness. 

The teasing was becoming unbearable. It made Jaskier feel like a trapped animal, maddening in a cage.

He had no way of knowing what those twiggy fingers were truly made of. What even now was slithering across the floor towards him, on a creeping mission of the utmost depravity...

_“Geralt...”_

Jaskier’s strong singing voice could only whimper.

“Geralt, what are you doing to me?”

The voice came back as smug as it was remorseless.

“Giving you what you want, Jaskier.”

The fierce fingers pinched at flesh, eliciting a sharp cry from the bard.

“Giving you what you _deserve.”_

Jaskier stared into those pitiless golden depths, wondering how deep he was going to fall into them now. But in his heart, he already knew the answer to that. He knew there would be no escape for him – knew there never could have been.

He didn’t want to escape the witcher’s clutches. And he never had.

He didn’t want this to end, and yet – if those fingers did not stop...

He struggled to sound composed, unwilling to reveal the extent of his straining agitation.

“It feels _good,_ Geralt – but it’s a bit... _too good_. If you keep touching me like that, it’s going to be all over very soon. And I’m going to have some very wet trousers...”

He smiled nervously, his face flushed.

“You wouldn’t want that for me, would you?”

But the grasping hand on his groin only squeezed scandalously, and set about attacking the ties on his breaches. And Jaskier could only gasp in pained surprise as his pants were undone and pulled roughly past his hips.

The chill air clutched on his balls and the warm hand squeezing his cock gave him his reply.

“Problem solved.”

The voice rumbled in amusement, and Jaskier knew now that the game was truly up. Those wicked fingers renewed their onslaught against his sensitive skin, jerking and rubbing without reprieve or release.

The sensations were too raw and compelling for the bard’s addled mind to contend with – all he could do was close his eyes and try to hold in the shuddering cry that was building up inside of him lest he lose his balance and collapse in ruin at the witcher’s feet.

But Jaskier’s ruin was closer than he realised.

For behind the gross veil of trickery and deceit, the tree-sprite’s crawling stolon was snaking right up the musician’s leg – ready to lap up the fresh secretions of fertile man-sap that the human’s fleshy stamen was girding to emit.

_“Geralt...”_

Jaskier’s voice was the very sound of desperation – a single sigh of surrender coupled with a plea for a refrain that he knew would not be forthcoming.

There was only one thing that was coming here.

And so Jaskier’s cock erupted in the dizzying, sticky crescendo that the tree’s wicked conjuring had inspired – squirting hot salty love cream over waiting, thirsty fingers, as the bard’s weak male body succumbed to the delicious urgings of what he’d mistakenly believed to be his witcher’s friendly hand.

He had no way of knowing the horrible truth through his clenched eyelids.

No way of understanding the terrifying implications of the theft of his man-seed by the greedy, sucking tree-sprite.

Not yet. But the first inklings of wrongness were sinking in.

For there were no kind words offered for his moment of release. No proffered kiss or warm embrace as the bard stood there shaking in the aftermath.

The figure of the witcher only took a step backwards.

“Get on your knees.”

Jaskier blinked, but his friend didn’t smile. The face before him remained gruff and unmoved, and at the back of his mind the bard felt a coldness envelop him.

Had he done something wrong? Was he witcher displeased with his performance?

But the figure clad in black was unlacing his own breaches now – and the intention of the gesture was unmistakeable.

So ignoring his own misgivings, the bard knelt down in obedience. As long as Geralt was happy to proceed, then so was he. And he would soon unthaw that frozen face – as soon as he got his artist’s hands around the witcher’s cock he would show his friend what a gentle touch could do.

But without a word, Jaskier’s hands were placed onto the front of those unlaced leather pants – and pressed in so that the musician could feel how thick and throbbing their contents were. At the push of his palms, whatever was inside seemed to jump and squirm for release... with a size that seemed abnormally large – even for a witcher with so many freakish mutations.

“Take a look, Jaskier.”

The words were another instruction – a command – but the bard felt his sense of curiosity unravel any sense of unease from his lowly situation.

With barely a tremor, the bard completed his task – and the most beastly cock that he’d ever seen came snaking out from inside those leather breaches. It slid out to greet the kneeling man who’d so foolishly thought he ever might tame it with delicacy – nearly taking out one of his grey eyes in the process.

“Wow, Geralt – you’re so... _big.”_

There was wonderment in Jaskier’s voice – wonderment at what strange and marvellous drugs had ever aligned to create a monstrous specimen such as this. He felt a thrill of discovery quicken his pulse – and something else too. Some stirring of alarm.

Whatever was he going to do with this mutant cock?

And perhaps the figure standing over him had seen the flash of doubt in his eyes, for those thin lips seemed to smile.

“Turn around. And bend over.”

Jaskier gazed up, certain what his friend wanted, but unsure of himself. He’d wanted this moment – or something like it – for so long. He’d wanted to be commanded like this, and guided like this – but something was missing. And he didn’t know what it was.

But it bothered him.

“Geralt, shouldn’t we – ”

He felt his friend’s hands push him down to the ground, sending him sprawling onto his back.

He stared up, scrutinising the blank face.

There was no warmth there, in the eyes. No humour. Just that dazzling, golden gaze that pierced him right through.

And the figure was bending down to touch him now – the hands were grabby and strong as they slid over Jaskier’s hips and rolled him on his stomach. They picked at his leather breaches, rolling them further down so his movements were hobbled, then slid over the curved flesh of his bare butt cheeks.

A finger raked him over – probing and sharp.

And suddenly Jaskier wanted it to stop. He didn’t know why, but he knew something was wrong.

But he couldn’t move – why couldn’t he move? He felt rooted to the spot, his limbs weak and heavy – and all the while that cruel finger was prizing between the crack of his butt, squirming over his flesh to find what it sought...

Jaskier cried out.

“Geralt, I need more time for this, I don’t – ”

Something rustled behind him.

Something like the dry crackled laughter of curling leaves.

And with a shiver of understanding, the spell was broken in Jaskier’s mind.

_My rhizomes are self-lubricating, my dear. Their insertion shall dilate you most pleasurably, I can assure you._

Jaskier sucked in a breath, terror clamping down on his horribly exposed human body. But he was immobile somehow – paralysed.

He glanced down and saw the hideous green vines wrapped around his hands, his waist – even coiled about his neck.

The tree could choke him to death right here and now.

He closed his eyes, trying to still his racing heartbeat and ease the tension in his muscle, for his reluctant submission was unavoidable now – something wet and hard was pressing against his butthole, and the strength behind its slow slide inside had become repulsively irresistible.

Fuck.

Was he really about to be fucked... by a tree?

He drew a shaking breath and screamed as loudly as his bondage allowed.

“Geralt – help!”

*****

It didn’t take Geralt of Rivia long to dispatch the monstrously huge spider. The thing was asleep and snoring – tucked up with its eight spindly legs in the air to protect its black bulbous body – sleeping off the half devoured carcass of a horned billy goat that lay beside it in the shuddering cocoon.

One swift swoop of his silver sword had lopped those spindly legs clean off, and a single stab through its furry abdomen had spilled its rancid yellow guts all over the forest floor.

Some of the sticky goo gushed out over the tips of his boots, while he frowned at the twitching leg stumps, sizing up the task ahead.

What part of this beast was the easiest to carry back to the village, to prove his kill?

Anything too juicy, and Jaskier would only fuss – his friend would insist on wiping him down to be ‘presentable’ for the aldermen, and in his sweetly trusting nature the bard could have no possible idea of the course impurities that his tactile hands evoked within the witcher’s tired and hungry mind.

Jaskier’s hands were skilled and supple – and they sought out human contact like a flower chased the sun. Those gentle touches didn’t mean anything, the witcher knew it. They weren’t reserved for him. The bard gave them freely to everyone, for the man had no sense of boundaries.

He would be shocked to learn of the manner in which Geralt had come to enjoy those touches – shocked and betrayed. And then... who knew what he might do? Where he might go? Whether he would come back?

Geralt glared down at the dead spider, and settled on bundling the severed legs together to sling over his shoulder. Like some twisted sprigs for a particularly ghoulish Halloween broomstick.

He trod down the hill, steeling himself for the second assault of the brambles, knowing their thorns had already marked his face and hands with thin red scratches and loath to incur any more injuries.

Jaskier would notice – he always did. He would want to tend to the bleeding.

And Geralt always let him. It was the path of least resistance. It was the only time he ever felt weak.

It was the only time that Jaskier was ever silent.

And every time Geralt felt those smooth hands rub over his skin, he wondered what it was that made Jaskier wait for him, day after day, wherever the road brought them. Wherever the monsters took them, his friend was always there.

Except this time, as he cleared the thorn bushes, Jaskier wasn’t there. He wasn’t waiting at the bottom of the hill, like he’d said he would be.

Geralt stepped out from the bramble bushes and dropped the spiders legs immediately. He listened with watchful eyes, searching for the murmured melodies or idle chatter that always marked the bard’s location.

But there was nothing to be heard.

The woods were a swirl of rustling leaves, distant birdcalls, and creeping ferns. There were no human noises to be found out there. There was no human life at all.

He frowned, and scanned the muddy track for footprints – maybe Jaskier had returned to the village?

And there he saw it – the white handkerchief. Stained with mud now from where it had dropped – but the small yellow flowers of the bard’s stage moniker were visible still to see...

“Jaskier?”

Geralt called out, as loud as he could – and heard the birds stop cheeping in the trees.

His only reply was stony silence, punctuated by the cold whispers of the wind.

Dread fell heavy in his stomach.

“Jaskier, where are you?”

He didn’t expect his friend to answer, but his anxiety spiked nonetheless at the heavy sense of loss in the forest.

Something was wrong. He could feel it – vibrating through his chest in time with the beatings of his heart.

He raised a hand to his medallion, recognising with dismay the familiar signal.

“Shit...”

He studied the tracks on the muddy path again, his eyes alive now to malice. And there – were those drag marks in the dirt? Had something been pulled that way – towards that tree by the bushes?

As he strode over to the innocuous looking shrub, the oscillation of his medallion only strengthened.

“Hmm.”

Was there something wrong with this picture? Something hidden inside the tree trunk, that his amulet detected?

And in answer to his questions, the witcher’s keen hearing picked up the faintest of cries.

_“Geralt – help!”_

It was Jaskier. Far away, and distant. And coming from _inside the tree..._

Geralt knocked a fist into the wooden bark, testing for an entrance.

And his hand tore through wooden skin and into empty air – there was a hollow inside the tree. The bark skein ripped away in his hands, to reveal nothing but darkness.

Darkness and a rising draft, bringing the faint but familiar scent of his missing bard. 

Shaking his head, the witcher unhooked his silver sword and clambered inside, wondering whatever trouble awaited him now.

Whatever madness had Jaskier stumbled upon this time...?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in posting this latest chapter! I really was wanting to get it out last week, but you know how it is... :/
> 
> Just to warn you though: this chapter is a bit dark and scary, with more of a horror vibe going on than anything else!
> 
> And so, we rejoin our hapless heroes - trapped in the belly of the beast – a botanical beast that even Geralt cannot name, and yet our favourite witcher plots to save our favourite bard. Can he do it? Does Geralt have the strength to resist the tree-sprite’s wanton seductions... or does he have another trick up his sleeve to free his friend...??

Into the darkness, far from the knowing eyes of the daylit world of men, the witcher descended. He clawed at the walls of the crumbling earthen hollow, dimly aware in the gritty gloom of the depths to which he was sinking – for the cold updrafts only strengthened as he dropped, sinking into the black oblivion in search of his heart’s one desire: the grey eyed bard who had called out his name and begged for his help.

The friend he loved above all others and must keep safe from harm.

Even now he could hear Jaskier’s fearful cries, rising in pitch and frequency. And upsetting though it was to hear the musician make such sounds, the noise did at least confirm the one thing that mattered most to the witcher right now – that his bard was still alive.

There were all too many terrible fates which could befall the unarmed and the unlucky in the ancient woodland – and all of them should quickly lead to their victim’s untimely demise. But Jaskier’s screams told the witcher that his friend was not dead – he was alive and he was healable – if only he could be plucked from the clutches of whatever danger had seized him, before it was too late...

Whatever had taken him, the witcher was certain of his mission. He would kill it stone dead, without a moment’s delay. And then Jaskier and he would be free to return to the village, safe in the knowledge that there would be fire, and food, and ale, and a warm bubbly bathtub waiting for both of them.

The witcher tried to purge all thoughts of Jaskier’s hot soapy skin from mind. It would not do to think of such improper imagery in this hour of his friend’s utmost need.

It would not do to think these impure thoughts anywhere, or at anytime. Such thoughts must be concealed, forced down, and forgotten.

For such thoughts could only lead to danger, damage – and the destruction of all that the witcher held dear...

After all, witchers were not made for love. They were made for killing things. And that is just what Geralt would prove right now.

Below his feet, the hollow opened up – at the same time that Jaskier’s cries were magnified – and so the witcher tumbled, landing on his knees on a soft soil floor inside a dimly-lit cavern.

The reek of dank and decayed vegetable matter assaulted his nose: the ground vibrated with the smell of putrefying rot, and before him all colours were smothered by a hideous, lurid green glow that cast creeping shadows about the cavern’s walls.

It was the deep forest green of the ancient woodlands, alive and enthroned amidst the earth and crawling worms.

The purest organic green of unchained instinct: naive, fresh and boundless as the blossoms of spring.

And in the witcher’s heart, he recognised at once the most dreadful green of the fairy kingdom – that wanton emerald shimmer at the root of all secret and selfish desires...

But that was not all.

Jaskier was there – before him – on all fours like a chained animal, with his face turned to the witcher in gritted relief.

“Geralt, thank the gods you’re here! Quick, make it stop!”

The witcher assessed the situation.

Something was very wrong here. Something was _pumping_ at the rear end of the bard – some awful thing that was unspeakably inhuman – and completely new to the witcher – despite his deep study of monstrous grimoires full of every demon known to men’s minds.

The _thing_ was ramming itself into Jaskier’s...

Into Jaskier’s...

Just...

_Into Jaskier._

Fuck.

The bard had really let his standards slip this time round! Whatever had he been thinking?

The witcher shook his head, and threw a meaningful glance at his friend – whose staring grey eyes were large and wide with panic.

“Don’t look at me like that, Geralt – this wasn’t my idea! Hurry up and get this thing off of me!”

Without another thought the witcher stood to attack, and in a split second the silver sword was raised, ready to obey the bard’s command and strike down this disgraceful vision of licentious abuse.

_Geralt of Rivia, it’s so nice of you to drop in! And you can drop that sword right now while you’re at it._

The witcher stared at the misshapen thing behind Jaskier, shocked by its obvious sentience.

He wasn’t quite sure whether the thing had spoken aloud, or if he’d somehow heard its words echo inside his mind.

Did the thing – whatever it was – even have a mouth?

Visually, it didn’t much match with Jaskier’s usual tastes in human beings. In fact, it looked to Geralt’s judgemental gaze rather like an ungainly shrub that had been chewed up and spat out – looming large and spiky, with wooden eyes and sprouting leaves that coated twisted, bark-covered limbs. But the worst – and most compelling – part of the thing’s anatomy was its collection of long, snaking vines.

They flapped freely in the cavern, wavering around on currents of air, searching for purchase on warm, human flesh, insect-like and predatory and horribly alive.

Many of them were encoiled around Jaskier already, pinning the bard into helpless supplication on the floor – they had wrapped around his neck, his wrists, his ankles... while a larger, firmer one slithered in and out between the exposed bare flesh where his leather breaches had been torn down...

The witcher shook his head in disgust.

It was some kind of demon, clearly. A sprite, or a sending. Something old, and something magical. And it was interfering with his one special bard in the most despicable of ways!

_Drop the sword, Geralt. I won’t tell you again._

The witcher glared back at the tree-sprite, ready to chop through those molesting branches with a single slice.

But below him on the floor, Jaskier screamed in pain.

“Fuck, Geralt – ”

_See how I can hurt him, witcher? If I choose to, I could pierce your little bard right through with one hard push, and split him open from the inside out. And then all your troubles would be over, wouldn’t they?_

The thing emitted some dry hissing sound – an affected mockery of laughter.

And on the floor, Jaskier choked and groaned as the probing vine plunged deeper into his tender flesh.

The obvious threat was very real. Appallingly real, and without hesitation Geralt let the silver sword drop to the dirt with a metallic chink.

He would take no risks with Jaskier’s life.

_That’s better. Now we three can find more agreeable ways to relate to each other. You will both like that enormously, I can see it all now._

Whatever could this demon mean? Whatever could it want?

Geralt frowned.

“The only thing I desire is my friend’s release. Let him go at once!”

But the tree chose to respond through Jaskier again. For down by the witcher’s feet, his friend suddenly groaned in a markedly different tone. Gone now was the note of pain, but something equally primal and powerful had taken its place in Jaskier’s rich voice...

“Oh, _Geralt!”_

The bard’s eyes had closed, as if concentrating on the tree’s slow slide into his most sacred of spaces.

As if some freakish and novel pleasure was being imparted to the man’s abused body by this wickedly ravishing tree-sprite...

As if Jaskier was... _enjoying_ this form of sordid mistreatment, down on his knees in the dirt?

The witcher stole a hurried glance at his friend – noting the flushed red cheeks, and full parted lips of the musician. The sounds coming from within Jaskier’s body only made Geralt’s breath shake.

He sounded hungry, and sensual. The viney shaft was teasing him, offering him gluttonous inches and then removing itself before the bard was satisfied. 

Jaskier moaned in disbelief.

“Don’t judge me, Geralt... I can’t help it – ”

The witcher stared, wondering with his spinning mind what his friend could ever mean. What kind of enjoyment could a man take from such florid misuse? But his own body knew. Deep down, in the meat of his muscle, the witcher’s cock felt a pleasurable shudder at the sight of his friend’s consummation.

He’d never seen Jaskier look so alluring. He’d never seen his friend arch his bare hips right back, trying to greedily bury more of that slimy green stem into his dangerously uncovered manhole. And the sight of Jaskier’s shamelessness was suddenly terrifying – but yet deliciously inspiring.

It inspired all kinds of forbidden thoughts in Geralt’s mind – thoughts he struggled to suppress. Part of him wanted to crouch down and stroke his hand through Jaskier’s hair, and watch his friend’s face fall apart as the tree played with his body.

The witcher shook his head.

Jaskier’s flesh was weak, and his self-control non-existent. The bard didn’t know what he was doing. His fragile mind had obviously been weakened by the demon’s wicked spells!

It was down to the witcher now to save him. He had to be better than this.

He couldn’t fail his friend. He had to stop staring at this maddening sight and think – think of a way out of this!

“What are you _doing_ to him?”

Geralt’s voice sounded strained and curious to his own ears – hardly the intimidating and assertive effect he’d been going for.

The tree was evidently unimpressed too. Otherwise, it would surely have hidden its shocking revelation from the witcher’s ears...

_I am going to bury my seeds inside his fertile innards, and make him germinate my fruits._

On the floor, Jaskier whimpered – even as the vine continued to pleasure him.

“See Geralt, it’s crazy – get it off me! Please!”

The tree hissed with laughter, and a second later Jaskier’s eyes were rolling back in his head.

_But_ _see how nice it feels, my dear? Why would you deny yourself such satisfaction?_

Jaskier only shook his head, his eyes fluttering in delirium as his body shook.

But the bard’s voice remained strong and insistent.

“Look, I really shouldn’t... _germinate anything_. I drink too much, I whore too much – I’m not cut out for... _parental living!”_

The witcher nodded, an idea coming to him.

It was all too true that Jaskier was weak. He was frail and human, and easily wounded by abasements of the flesh, just like all others of his kind. But Geralt on the other hand...

Geralt was strong. Mutated. He was a witcher, and he could endure anything. Even the noxious potions and poisons that would kill Jaskier outright. As well as all other living creatures.

Including plants.

And their seeds.

He cleared his throat, burying the idea deep within his mind.

Whatever else happened, the strategy must remain concealed from this evil tree and its mind-combing fingers. At least until Jaskier was safely out of its reach...

“The bard is right. You’d be better off using me. I’m a much stronger vessel than he is.”

The tree slowed its probing of Jaskier, who whined in some heady mixture of relief and dismay.

_You would trade places with your friend?_

The witcher nodded, seeing the bard stare up at him in shock.

He could almost feel Jaskier’s tumbling thoughts breaking over his mind – and he silently begged the bard for his silence this one time. For his friend to hold his tongue and still his questions, and not upset the witcher’s thoughts with any petty protests...

For something else was tickling at the edge of his consciousness. Some shadowy presence tracing over the seams of his thoughts, assessing his honesty. The tree was questioning him in its own magical way.

Geralt closed his mind to it as firmly as he could, and grappled inwardly for a distraction.

There was only one that sprang to mind.

And with a sigh of defeat, he stared hurriedly at Jaskier’s open mouth, allowing himself the privilege of wondering how it would feel to take his friend’s face in hand and kiss his soft lips, while Jaskier knelt before him on the floor with that amazed look of doubt and gratitude shining in his grey eyes...

And the tree warbled its bemused approval.

The trick had obviously worked.

_The things we do for love, witcher. Don’t worry. I understand how you feel._

But without warning, the demonic tree began to tighten its coils around Jaskier’s neck – flushing his face a more ominous shade of crimson.

Geralt felt a stab of real fear, and dropped to his knees. With his fingers he fought that cellulose noose as it choked the air from his bard’s lungs. But he couldn’t find purchase on its slippery wetness.

It was impossible for him to hide the panic in his voice.

“What are you doing to him? Stop it!”

For the strength of the vines was uncanny. It was no match for the witcher’s grip to release. But luckily, his grip was not the only weapon that Geralt of Rivia possessed.

For even now, the witcher was reaching for his sword... his golden eyes flashing with fury as his friend gasped for breath.

But still, the tree continued its deranged pursuits – singing softly to the bard in a voice so similar to Jaskier’s own that the witcher thought at first that it had been him who had spoken.

_Watch and be still, my dear. Your witcher wants to save you. And the best way for that to happen is for you to be still._

The bard only groaned and closed his eyes, falling limp to the ground as the pressure on his neck was released.

The witcher relaxed somewhat at the sight – his friend was still breathing. The tree had let him go.

Jaskier seemed to be merely unconscious. Had he been hypnotised?

But what the fuck had all that just been about?

“What have you done to him?”

_He’s fine, witcher. I have not made any permanent changes to your friend just yet. And as long as you submit yourself to me, that is how it will remain. I merely wanted to give you... a demonstration. To ensure your compliance with this task._

Geralt swallowed, allowing himself to brush away a strand of brown hair from Jaskier’s closed eyes. And although those eyelids flickered at his touch, the bard did not stir.

Jaskier was still alive, and Geralt had a plan. And if all went well, then they would soon both be free. Free to return to the village and drown this whole day of confusing excitements in a good quantity of grain alcohol, and never ever have to speak about the nightmare visions and disturbing passions ever again.

Jaskier could chalk it up to yet another of his odd and inexplicable sexual misadventures. He could probably even turn it into some funny song, and make some coin out of the whole experience.

And Geralt... well, Geralt would settle for just going back to the tavern and knowing that Jaskier was alright. That the man he loved was undamaged, and safe. That he would still be there – even in a distant room next door with ill-chosen company, when the witcher next awoke, lonely and dissatisfied.

It was a good plan. And the witcher was happy to accept the terms.

“Alright. Tell me what to do.”

And at his words, the tree seemed to slink towards him – its vines uncoiled from Jaskier’s sleeping form and began to waft towards the spot where the witcher sat, his face immobile, waiting on the floor of the cavernous lair for this gruesome but necessary depredation.

_Put your arms up, witcher – that’s right. Just like that. None of this will hurt you – but I want you to be still, all the same. As still as your lovesick bard lies, when he hears you pleasure yourself at night._

The witcher scowled at the filthy-minded tree.

It evidently wasn’t enough to be put through this ridiculous and humiliating procedure for its foul propagation – this plant meant to jest with him too!

He allowed the slithering cables to coil around his wrists and ankles, sliding over his black leather riding boots and digging tight into the flesh around his calves. It was uncomfortable – the vines were strong, and tight – but the implications of its joke were still preying on his mind.

“Don’t speak of Jaskier again. Especially not like that. In fact, it’s better that you say nothing at all, and let us get this over with.”

The tree hissed with laughter again, but perhaps more softly this time round.

_You’re a fool, witcher. And so is he. I can see into your hearts. But perhaps you’re right – it’s not for me to meddle with your mortal emotions. I just need you to bear my seed, and grow my fruits all big and strong._

The witcher stared as a rose coloured vine – thicker and fleshier than the others, squirmed its way out of the tree’s bark covering and started worming through the air towards him. The end of the probe was pink and engorged, pulsating with a gruesome inner motion as if it could burst at any moment.

_My rhizomes are ready, witcher. You shall be implanted with your bard’s own seed, crossed with my own immortal strain. Does that make you feel nice and warm inside?_

Mesmerised by the pink pulsing wormlike vine, the witcher tried to keep his voice neutral. What this demon said was disgusting, and only made his brain and stomach revolt.

And yet...

Another part of him stirred uncomfortably at the idea of something so intimate of Jaskier’s being put inside of himself.

That part stood visible right on his crotch, and he was glad to know that Jaskier could not see the effect of this shameful titillation on flesh such as his. The shame would be too much to bear if the bard ever found out that witchers were indeed weak in these ways too.

The discomfort of this indulgence was for Geralt alone to endure. But if it kept Jaskier safe then it would all be worthwhile.

And so as the hideous pink bulb squirmed straight for his mouth, he focused his thoughts on his friend’s smiling face and closed his eyes.

_Open wide, witcher. My gifts will taste exquisite, you’ll find out._

It took great effort not to gag as the slimy vine wriggled past his lips and slid down his throat in snaking oscillations. He could feel the alien intrusion slithering all the way along his guts – its cold, rhythmic pulse made him feel like vomiting.

But it was too early for that. Much too early. The potions would come later – and for now... well, he just tried to control his thoughts, lest the tree see into his mind and uncover the deception.

His mind turned to Jaskier, in rapturous memory of the last time he’d watched the man bathing. The last time he’d had to avert his eyes at the sight of the man disrobing. The last time he’d heard Jaskier, in the next-door room of some cheap tavern, entertaining some unworthy lover in a bed that sat far too close to their shared flimsy walls...

_If you want I can touch you, witcher. Make it nice for you. I could even make you think that I’m him, and milk your man-sap while I do it. We both know that you would like that. Why deny yourself the pleasure?_

The witcher froze, unwilling to have such filthy thoughts voiced aloud – even by a course-natured vegetation sprite such as this.

There was no use in protesting however – for by now the witcher’s mouth was full of creeping plant-matter and all he could do was choke and splutter in outrage. But the tree seemed to understand anyway.

It sounded almost sad in its reproach.

_Very well, witcher. Your foolish secret is safe with me. I would do nothing to hurt either one of you silly mortals, and neither would I take pleasure in revealing your secrets._

Was it his imagination – or did the witcher now feel something begin to pump into his stomach – something warm and wriggling.

It was moving, he was sure of it. And the knowledge made him fight against those chaffing green vines. They continued to hold him tightly in – as he’d known they must do – but the urge to flee this gross violation was escalating wildly.

He screwed his eyes tightly shut and tried not to think of whatever it might be, moving around in his guts – but all the while, his stomach was swelling up in some horrid unnatural bloating.

And the plant seemed to relax into its disgusting mating ritual.

_That’s better, witcher. That’s nice. That’s the first –_

But seemingly out of nowhere, the tree screamed in pain!

Geralt felt it shudder inside his guts – and the sensation was monstrous. If he could have pulled its stem out through his own skin then he would have done so.

He opened his eyes wide with shock – and saw Jaskier, awake and alert.

The bard had pulled his breaches up and risen to his knees, Geralt’s silver sword in his hand, and was stabbing at the tree with all his might. He was out of range of the pink pumping vine – but he was reaching for it now with the blade – his grey eyes wild and horrified by its assault on his witcher.

Shit, Jaskier was going to ruin everything!

Geralt scrabbled to control his thoughts.

But at a stroke, the scheme that the witcher had tried so hard to hide slipped out of his mind in his blurred confusion...

And in the twinkling of an eye the tree-sprite gained full knowledge of the trick that he’d tried to play against it.

And naturally, it was entirely unamused. In fact – it hissed out loud in betrayal through its bark-like skin.

_You double-crossing fools –_

Before Jaskier could swing again, those green vines were grabbing at his wrists, forcing him down to the ground.

“Geralt, quick!”

The witcher felt the gorge rising in his throat as the fleshy pink stem disengaged from his guts in uncomfortable haste. Upwards it flowed, scraping his tonsils and shooting straight towards the bard – now pinned against the floor by those vines.

“Geralt, take the sword!”

But the vines were too strong, and their grip held the witcher out of reach of the weapon. He might have made it – if only there had been more time.

But alas – it seemed that the two friends were all out of time. And all out of luck.

One of the cruel vines twisted Jaskier’s wrist until he dropped the sword and fell to his knees. And then the tree wasted no time in pressing its advantage.

And too late, Jaskier realised his terrible mistake.

The bard’s face was a picture of horror as the pink stolon slimed its way past his lips.

The witcher howled.

“No, don’t touch him!”

_You almost got away with your plan, witcher – but I see it now. You planned to use your nasty potions to flush my seeds from your weird mutant entrails!_

The witcher fought against the grips of the vines, hearing them snap piece by piece. But the struggle was tremendous and he had so little time left...

“Jaskier, I’m coming!”

The bard had been toppled on his back now, his grey eyes wide with alarm as the pink cable wormed its way down his throat. And even now, the witcher could see in outline how the bard’s stomach shook as the tree’s organ writhed through his intestines.

Jaskier looked terrified. And in his heart the witcher shared that dread.

He knew that the bard was right to be afraid – no potions existed for him to drink to eradicate this corruption of his human body. Not without killing him in the process.

_“Jaskier!”_

The witcher could only roar in outrage, tearing through the vines as fast as he could to try and reach his terrorised friend – but those precious seconds fell away empty.

The tree had won.

_And you – you tried to kill me, Jaskier, my dear. And to think – after all I’d given you... I’d thought that we were friends. Well, maybe you need me to give you something more to prove it to you?_

Through his thrashings on the ground against the slender green vines, it was obvious that the bard understood the threat quite clearly in the tree’s honeyed warning.

But despite his best attempts at wriggling free, Jaskier was held fast and his belly began to shudder with something more than just the pink cable’s travels...

Whatever hideous spores the tree had produced were finally jetting through its fleshy pump, and implanting themselves inside Jaskier’s guts. His leather breaches – still unlaced around his hips – burst open under the expanding girth of the hideously swelling flesh beneath them. 

Geralt could only look on in impotent rage as Jaskier was defiled by the tree’s filthy seed.

The bard’s eyes were squeezed shut – his whole body clenched and frozen beneath the tree’s violation.

And as the pink probe finally eased off its obscene pumping and disengaged from Jaskier’s shaking lips, it slithered possessively down the musician’s ravaged body.

He lay still and pale, shaking and afraid – until with reverential pride, the pink creeper fondled the stretched-out skin of Jaskier’s round and pregnant stomach.

It patted the bard’s bump in victory.

Geralt could only stare in shock and disgust. Jaskier stifled a whimper.

And now – its hideous job completed, the tree hissed in self-righteous mirth.

_It is done, friends. My work here is complete. Thank you Jaskier, my dear. I know your flesh is not willing – but that matters not to me. You will bear my fruits regardless, and then birth them through your male tracts._

Jaskier’s eyes opened – round with terror at the hideous promise.

“What _male tracts?_ What have you _done_ to me?”

The tree just winked its eye-like orifice.

_In several hours, my dear, you will find that out. Until then, I bid you adieu. But remember, my dear – to make an omelette, you sometimes have to crack eggs!_

The tree laughed at its own joke – just like the true monster it was – and winked again at the witcher.

And in a puff of lime green smoke, the demonic entity vanished from view without another word. No trace of itself was left in the underground cavern that still glowed with the ghastly green light – the vines had all gone from the two friends’ limbs, and the terrible pink probe that had snaked down their gullets no longer waved menacingly at anyone else in the room.

All that remained of the tree-sprite was the grotesque distension in Jaskier’s belly – and the terrified sobs of the bard as he lay flat on his back staring helplessly at Geralt – as if only the witcher could save him now.

Geralt only wished it was true.

Fuck!

However was he going to save Jaskier from this appallingly awful fate??


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the next instalment in this increasingly bizarre little fic. I’m intending to finish things up in the next chapter, so this is a kind of prelude to the main event – it’s perhaps a little less dark than the previous chapter, but I think arguably even weirder!

Through the dim light of the forest, the witcher ran. The sunlight was beginning to fade now, and soon all manner of dark things would stalk amidst the dank undergrowth and twisted trunks of the ancient woodlands – their claws sharp and their wet mouths hungry.

But the witcher cared not. His thoughts were focused on a single need, a single purpose that made him sprint across the muddy track back to the village with all the speed he could muster.

He needed to reach that village. He needed to get help. He needed to save Jaskier.

And every step he made was urged on by the blind panic of what would befall that beloved friend of his should he fail in his mission.

It had been a struggle to even leave Jaskier – all alone now in the monster’s burrow. Jaskier had not wanted him to go – had begged him not to leave, in fact. The man’s belly was too swollen to fit through the narrow tunnel to the surface, leaving him trapped inside the underground pit.

And when those haunted grey eyes had turned on him, teary with fear and pleading him not to leave, it had taken all the strength that he possessed not to scoop his bard up in his arms and hold him close and gently whisper all those sweet promises that he knew his friend wanted to hear.

But Geralt could not utter those lies, or offer that comfort. He had no idea what would happen to Jaskier, or how he could even be saved – his life itself could well be in danger now that the evil tree-sprite had defiled him so.

And they had such little time to waste. The demon had said that Jaskier had just hours before... before whatever was coming to him _came._

And so with a heavy heart, the witcher had turned his back on his friend’s pleas, shrugged off the grasping hand that clutched at his ankle, and climbed out of the burrow and into the thick forest air – intent on reaching the village, and finding whatever help he could.

The farmstead was too small to have its own mage, he knew that much. Too small – and too poor. But it did have a little library, as all the country townships did these days. A place where tithes and tax records were stored by the local lord’s factors. A place where the weather annals and harvest weights were recorded by the farmers.

A place where magical grimoires, local bestiaries and necronomica were kept for emergency use by any passing traveller.

And in that place alone, he might find salvation for his friend.

He could see it up ahead now, as he tore into the village main square. The streets were deserted – the sky had grown dark with the threat of rain – but the door to the round stone building was unlocked just as he’d hoped.

Inside was dark and gloomy – lit only by one cheap tallow candle that flickered beside the locked iron shelves where the official manuscripts were all stored away safe from mischief. But there – on a small wooden shelf, accessible to all who ventured past – he could see the white and green cross of the magical first aid section.

He pulled out the black leather-bound tome, glanced at the index, and flicked to the page of interest at once.

And as soon as he began to read, the witcher’s mouth fell open in surprise.

“Well. _Fuck.”_

It was all he could say.

It was all he had time to say – before he turned on his heels, fled from the library, and ran as fast as he could back to his desperate friend who waited all alone for him deep in the darkening forest depths...

*****

The green glow in the earthen hole was playing tricks on his mind, it had to be. This all had to be some crazy fever-dream – it could not possibly be real.

Geralt would _never_ have abandoned him if it was real.

Jaskier refused to believe it.

Maybe he was someplace else – still sitting on the path in the forest, waiting for Geralt to return from his spider-hunt, and some poison ant had bitten his finger and launched him into this whole crazed delirium.

Maybe a stray space mushroom had found its way into last night’s dinner.

And maybe – just maybe, if he didn’t look down on himself – didn’t stare in horror at his distended guts – and kept his hands away from the round bloating of his once-flat stomach then it would all just go away, and he would wake up, safe and happy and with Geralt beside him.

It was a good plan. The best he could do, really. Except for just one thing.

He could _feel_ something moving _inside_ himself now.

The first time it had happened, he’d convinced himself that he’d imagined it. But it was happening more frequently now. More forcefully.

He chewed on his lip, whining under his breath in the dizzying green light.

There was no escape down here. He’d crawled into the corner and sat by the wall of the hollow, but he couldn’t climb up to the light of day. He couldn’t see properly what was happening to him.

He couldn’t think straight.

But he had to look. He had to see what was happening.

He had to _know._

With shaking hands, he brushed aside the burst buttons of his shirt and _looked._

The lightly furred skin of his belly was taught and round, hard to the touch and unutterably hideous to his wide grey eyes.

By all the laws of the gods, no man’s stomach should ever look like this.

And in fascinated horror, he could only stare. Was it truly his imagination this time, or was something travelling under his skin? Could he see the ripples of something horrible moving through his guts, or was it just the shocks of his own terrified heartbeat echoing through his entire body?

If only Geralt was here, he would know what to do!

The witcher was the only one who could help him now, he knew it.

And in response to that cherished memory of his dear friend, a strange sensation tickled at the edge of his mind.

It wasn’t a horrible sensation. In fact, the opposite was true – and in other circumstances Jaskier would have wholeheartedly embraced such a feeling and grasped it tightly within his palm, especially with thoughts of his own dear witcher so close to the surface of his thoughts.

But at this time, in this place, such a sensation only filled him with dread.

Where he sat, his pants lay loose around his hips – their seams were ruined now, burst and destroyed by the sudden expansion of his gut, and so he couldn’t see what was happening _down there_ – not without choosing to look.

But he could feel it, all the same.

The sensation grew stronger, and something lurched inside his belly.

Oh fuck, what was going on? What was happening to him?

Something so horribly wrong, so frightening and alien and dirty... but why then did he feel so sensual and good?

Why was this foul degradation suddenly so _pleasurable?_

Unable to delay this confrontation any longer, Jaskier rolled down his pants, and had all his doubts affirmed.

Despite the fecund distension deep within his belly, his male body had grown hard – teased into some unwitting erection by the strange hidden power that was growing inside of him, feeding off his emotions and channelling his despair into its own nefarious agenda.

An agenda that could only mean one thing for him.

The hidden power that had seeded within his body was now awakening and making itself felt.

Making itself _seen._

Jaskier stared at his stiffened shaft in shock.

As the fitful throbbing pulsed through his belly, something green and living was sprouting from the eye of his cock – germinating out of his own body with an unholy vigour.

It was a bud of some kind. Attached to a stem.

Growing out of his body.

“Oh, no. Oh _fuck...”_

Jaskier watched as the round little bud slowly sprung from his cock and delicately unfurled into a small yellow flower.

A flower just like the ones embroidered onto the corners of his lost handkerchief, at once terribly familiar and yet so awfully terrible for him to see here and now.

And as the little yellow flower blossomed from his body, Jaskier could only stare at it and scream...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, sorry for the huge delay with getting this work finished!! I always knew I would come back and finish it off, but my job has been a bit brutal these last few weeks (and by ‘weeks’ I kinda mean ‘months’). 
> 
> But I could not leave poor Geralt and Jaskier waiting in the horrible predicament of this fic for any longer!!
> 
> So after months of being stuck in the horrible lair of the scheming tree sprite – Jaskier, who is pregnant (I guess?) with the demonic tree creature’s seedlings – is about to be saved by Geralt, who is a true white knight to the rescue! Geralt is the man with the plan, and things will all work out in the end :)
> 
> NB: You may also want to not be eating anything when you read this. It’s all a bit nauseating in places even if I do say so myself!! :/

The witcher huffed a breath as he tumbled down the earthen hole towards the green glow below. His thoughts were a muddle, as dark and as dense as the gloomy depths through which he sank.

Could it really be true?

Could there be a way to save Jaskier?

He’d been in such a hurry to reach his friend that he’d ridden Roach hard enough for her hooves to tear up half the muddy trackway – and then he’d abandoned her all alone under the darkening canopy, untethered and free to range among the ferns.

He wanted her free to run from any creature that might stalk closer whilst her master was at work – for gods only knew what fell visions roamed through these woods once night-time’s reign of darkness began.

The giant spider had been dispatched and the tree sprite had vanished, but Geralt was under no illusions now as to the grim nature of this cursed woodland. The very air was steeped in dankness and decay, alive with an evil magic that had risen up and somehow dared to threaten...

_Jaskier._

His every waking thought was consumed with the bard. It always had been – he realised that so clearly now – now that it may well be too late to do anything about it.

But he would try. He would do whatever it took.

He would do what the book had instructed him to do – may the gods have mercy on his soul – and perhaps by some miracle his friend would live through this night...

The witcher braced for the hard landing as he dropped down into the lurid green void, but his breath caught in his throat at the sight that assaulted his eyes in the tree monster’s subterranean chamber of horrors. He stopped dead where he fell – recoiling in fright at what had befallen his hapless friend whilst he’d been left helpless and all alone.

“Jaskier – fuck!”

His friend was naked on all fours, grunting into the dirt like an animal, his laboured breath coming in heavy moans that made Geralt’s stomach lurch in dreadful foreboding that he’d arrived all too late.

But even that tortured thought was not the worst that flitted through the cracks in his mind.

For even as he stared in growing revulsion – he noticed that _something_ – some monstrous thing – had already slithered its way out from inside his friend’s tormented body. A green vine – supple and strong and branched into many sinuous offshoots – had sprouted out from Jaskier’s mouth and had slithered down his stomach! The hideous offshoots had wrapped themselves around his wrists, his ankles – and burrowed their ends into the earth below so that the bard was forced into his twisted position.

He crouched on hands and knees, his bare ass vibrating in the air as the vines forced his muscles rigid.

And even as he squirmed against his fiendish bonds, it was obvious that Jaskier had little strength for the fight. Whatever foul desecration the tree sprite had planted inside the man’s guts was in full control of his body – and whatever evil end awaited him was fast approaching.

The realisation hit Geralt flat across the face as he scrambled to his friend’s assistance.

There was one way to stop it – the book had said so. There was a chance. If only –

“Jaskier, look at me.”

He reached a hand to tilt his friend’s face towards him, relieved to see Jaskier’s eyes react in recognition even through his demented mumbling.

“Grrllt!! Hnkhkk! Hllpee!”

Those big grey eyes were wide and pleading, tugging on all the heartstrings that the witcher had held tight inside his chest for years and years. All of those elaborately constructed defences were coming undone now at the sight of Jaskier’s subjection – at the shrill note of fear in his stifled cries.

The bard was terrified, helpless – and counting on his witcher to save him from his peril.

And there was a way to save him – so the book had said. Only one way, if it wasn’t too late already.

“I’ll help you, Jaskier. But you have to trust me.”

The bard nodded and groaned beneath his gaze, and all those pretty features screwed up as if something had squeezed his guts in half.

“Hkk, Grrllt – ”

“What is it? What’s happening?”

But the bard had no mind to respond, gasping for breath with a tree sprouting from his mouth...

As gently as was possible, the witcher reached his hand around Jaskier’s swollen belly – following a sickening vibration that led down the trail of thickening hair around the man’s groin – seeking with his fingers to understand and probe what was happening to his friend’s body under the skin.

He reached lower and gasped at what brushed his fingers.

Jaskier’s cock was hot and hard to his touch – but the sensation brought little joy to either of them.

It was unnaturally hard – stiff and rigid with smooth silky stems that had sprouted from the bulbous head of the bard’s swollen cock.

The witcher withdrew his hand in shock, and brushed against flowers.

Flowers.

Fuck!

There wasn’t much time left.

There was only one thing he could do here, or else Jaskier’s body was going to be torn apart by whatever unholy bloom had been planted inside of him.

He knelt down between his friend’s legs, and reached for the oiliest of the potions that he’d grabbed from Roach’s saddlebag. And with a plea that Jaskier might live to see the next day and might one day even forgive him, Geralt of Rivia pulled his tight black leather pants down with shaking hands...

...shaking hands that uncorked the potion bottle and poured the herbal grease down Jaskier’s sweaty crevasse...

...hands that pulled his friend’s sticky skin flush against his own – letting his cock make contact at last with Jaskier’s squirming ass...

...hands whose fingers probed around the edge of Jaskier’s tight little manhole, greasing and pressing and pushing...

...until those hands were needed no more – for Geralt was hard enough, and Jaskier was slick enough that their bodies eased together as if made for each other.

Jaskier groaned in some obscene grunt of delight as Geralt pushed deeply inside him – and then those hands were needed once again – needed to hold Jaskier’s hips tight while his witcher rocked into him with gritted teeth.

For it was not about the witcher’s pleasure.

It was only for Jaskier – every thrust, every scoop or twist, and every haul of his friend’s hips against his own – it was all for Jaskier. All to elicit those delirious cries of pleasure and keep his friend’s body loose and limber while the plant tried to break its way out of Jaskier’s tender flesh...

All to fill his friend’s body with love and ecstasy and worship – to keep him safely out of his mind with sexual bliss as the hours went by.

For the first aid book had promised that no harm would come to Jaskier should he be kept in a state of ecstasy for the duration of his labours. The dark magic of the tree sprite would have no power over him if – and only if – someone who truly loved him could keep him enraptured until the horrors had passed.

And luckily for Jaskier, Geralt of Rivia was a consummate professional – dedicated absolutely to taking down the wicked schemes of monsters wherever they emerged – while being equally devoted to donating all of his affections and endurance into supplying a steady string of orgasms to his enchanted bard.

And if his witchery friends from Kaer Morhen could have seen him, they would have sworn that Geralt had never seemed as zealous and dedicated to the job in hand as he was at this moment.

Jaskier was not allowed a second to recover – for to allow his mind to drift back into the moment could invite a terrible ruin upon him that could never be undone – and the bard’s muffled groans and sobs only drove Geralt further on into his own peculiarly pleasurable form of madness.

Was this love? Was this what it felt like to touch the body of a loved one? To make their flesh yield and surrender with such glorious abandon?

But the thought itself was too dangerous, even for here – for Jaskier did not love him. He knew that. Jaskier was under a spell, in danger, being forced to accept these sensations and emotions that he had never asked for – had never wanted. And when the morning came, he might be angry with Geralt. Disappointed. Feel disgusted and betrayed...

Even if – for now – Jaskier’s cock pulsed and leaked with jets of greenish seed every time Geralt made him hit those delicious high notes, in encore after quavering encore – in the morning light he might well be singing a different tune.

But it did not matter. Not now. For whatever had been pumped inside of Jaskier’s guts was slowly deflating and oozing out onto the dirty earthen floor. Slowly but surely, Geralt was draining the tree’s evil fruits from Jaskier’s belly – one savage thrust and laboured orgasm at a time.

And after what must have been hours – for even Geralt’s muscle was growing weak and exhausted – and Jaskier’s sweet singing voice had long rasped hoarse in his strangled throat – the pearly jet that dribbled from the bard’s spent cock came pure and white. Devoid entirely of any monstrous green devil spawn.

And in that moment Geralt had known that they’d both won, and that – thank the immortal gods – Jaskier was going to be quite alright.

The withered branches and flowers had been pulled without effort from his friend’s bodily orifices – even as the man curled into a ball on the floor in a deep and shattered sleep – and Geralt burned each and every trace of the vile stems with a cleansing blast of Igni.

He turned his friend over on the dirt of the cavern floor, checking for any injuries or marks of harm – but all he saw were scrapes and bruises that would heal without damage. Jaskier was filthy and needed a bath – his clothes were ruined – but he was safe. He was alright.

And more than anything else that he’d ever felt before, this was what gave Geralt of Rivia the most satisfaction. This was the only truth that he loved.

This was the only love he that he’d known.

He allowed himself to stroke a finger down Jaskier’s cheek, letting his eyes rest on his friend’s peaceful face while he knew he was unobserved.

For who knew what tomorrow would bring, when his friend woke up. Who knew what Jaskier would remember – what he would think...

What he would _do._

_He loves you, witcher. And he has no clue that you love him too. Such a pity. Why else do you think I had the power to appear to him while you’d left him all alone and abandoned and bereft of affection, hmm?_

For was it really the tree sprite’s voice, ringing in his head as he scooped his friend up and dressed him roughly in his ruined clothes?

While he scrambled up the tunnel with Jaskier held tight against his breast?

While he clutched his bard closer as Roach carried them both back safely through the black night-time shadows of the wild old woods?

Or was it the voice of his own, deepest and darkest-most of unsung and lonely desires that mocked his aching heart with the cruel taunts of what could never be real...?

*****

It was the sunshine that woke Jaskier in the end – streaming in through the edges of the dirty curtains lining the cheap tavern bedroom. Yet as soon as he awoke, he knew that he was not alone. That he was being watched.

And he knew whose golden eyes were watching him from across the grimy room before he even sat up to look.

“Geralt, gods – how long was I asleep for?”

The witcher’s face remained emotionless.

“It’s past noon, bard. You were tired. You needed to rest.”

Jaskier thought back – and all the memories of the green glow and the wicked tree sprite rushed back into his mind with a terrifying vengeance.

Had it been a dream? Had he been drinking that red fungus tea again? What the fuck was all that about?

But one look at Geralt’s widened eyes told him the horrible truth.

This had been no dream. No hallucination.

“Oh fuck, Geralt – ”

And to his surprise, the witcher was beside him in a flash.

Beside him, and holding his hand in mid air even as Jaskier clawed at his throat, somehow worried some trace of the demon vines might be choking round his neck even now.

The witcher was staring back at him with open concern – and with a gasp Jaskier remembered everything.

Everything.

_“Geralt – !”_

A guilty frown marred the witcher’s face, and he withdrew his hand from Jaskier’s, as if stung by the shock in his friend’s voice.

A cry escaped Jaskier’s lips, and he grabbed his witcher’s hand back in midair.

And with a squeeze of affection, he brought that hand to his lips.

“You saved me, Geralt – fuck. Thank you.”

The witcher nodded, and his frown relaxed. Somewhat.

“You’re... not angry with me?”

Jaskier stared, not understanding.

“Why would I be angry?”

The witcher only studied the floor.

And several questions rattled through Jaskier’s tired mind at that point. Several realisations. Several things he wanted to say – all at once. Some of those thoughts and questions did indeed make him slightly angry, and some of them made him even more curious about the inner workings of his dearest friend’s rather strangely fatalistic mind.

Mostly however, those thoughts left him only with a powerful sense of love – and a slightly frayed, worn-out sense of daring.

This was no time for words – not now. There had been whole lost years which had fallen silent between them, and Jaskier was not prepared to wait any longer for those words to come to Geralt.

This was a time for something else. For something that even the witcher would understand. Something physical, and reciprocal. Something solid and giving.

Something _real._

Jaskier reached his own shaking hand up to Geralt’s jaw, and planted a kiss on the lips of the man he’d loved for the past twenty years with wordless longing. The man he’d loved in silence.

But he would be silent no more.

And when Geralt kissed him back, and allowed himself to be pulled down onto the soft white pillow where the golden sunlight pooled around them both, they stared into each other’s eyes and saw only the truth reflected there.

And in that truth, both of them knew that neither of them would go silent and loveless ever again.


End file.
